I long to paint. To pick brushes of different kinds, dip them in various shades of colour, and to spread them in strokes across a sheet of paper.
I miss it. The audacious smell of kerosene and turpentine that forbids anyone to gain entry into my room. The splay of tubes of paints, newspapers, heavy objects that i use to hold my sheets in place, a radio who music accompanies those gentle strokes of a brush. Mother grumbling for the nth time that i've dirtied the floor, and my clothes.
Invariably , somehow, i tend to paint my floor and my clothes. There was this white pyjamas which had yellows, reds, greens on it. It always happened that i felt compelled to paint on that particular day when i wore this pair of pyjamas.
At times, the process goes on till late night, until i get sickened by the smells of the various chemicals around me. I continue with it in the following morning right after i brush my teeth, like my life depends on it. Stepping around the room requires utmost caution, for God only knows where i've thrown what!
Drying it requires time. I refuse it to leave my sight. It shifts it's position during different times of the day. When the maid, comes in to mop the floor, it lies o the bed. When i plan to sprawl on the bed, it goes onto the floor. And when finally warns me, it enters a room upstairs. It lies at peace there, for a week or so. With regular checks to estimate the amount of paint that sticks to the finger to indicate it's phase of drying.
I'm waiting to get back to it. I know i will, after i'm done with my exams.